


Venusberg

by larissabernstein



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Aestheticism, Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Introspection, Unreliable Narrator, boat or bed that is the question
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: It seemed both more convenient and, in a strangely contradictory mood, at the same time less indecent and more exciting to lay down her unconscious form into the lush nest of richly tapestried pillows in the gondola that was moored at the small pier within the portcullis, where the open part of his parlour met the artificial shore of the subterranean lake.A different take on the events after the "Music of the Night" scene.





	Venusberg

**Author's Note:**

> ALW universe with just a nod to Leroux, and a nod to the 1925 film (look at Christine's bed, just look at it).  
> And when I say ALW, I am always referring to the original phantom in the original West End production. Because reasons.
> 
> Dedicated to my beloved phriends and phamily on Discord.

Schlug dich die Welt in Acht und Bann?

Und findest nirgend du Erbarmen,

suchst Liebe du in meinen Armen?

 

Did earth reject and banish you?

And, finding nowhere true compassion,

do you seek love now in my arms?

 

(Richard Wagner, _Tannhäuser_ , Act III, Scene 3; translation L.B.)

 

**Venusberg**

He was there to catch her, when the mirror image of the bridal mannequin bowed to her in its uncanny greeting and the fright, obviously combined with the exhaustion from her earlier performance and the general excitement of this night, caused her to faint. Christine’s body felt soft and pliant, and his arms had never carried a sweeter or more treasured burden. He was emboldened by his own music; the song he had sung for her was still echoing through his lair and even more so in his blood. One arm supporting her back and cradling her head gently against his chest, the other arm tucked securely under her knees, he took a moment to just revel in the feel of her weight in his arms, and look at her relaxed features, her face framed by a halo of unruly brunette curls, her eyes hidden behind closed lids. He had seen her like this before, asleep and carefree in her bed and unaware of the masked observer guarding her dreams. However, the reality of her still body in his arms was incomparable to the past, timid experiences; it was a heady and powerful thing, to have her nestled in his embrace, his to hold and to protect, and in this very moment he knew that he was never again going to content himself with only watching from afar.

Her petite frame did not put any actual strain on his muscles, and it would have been easy to carry her deeper into his house by the lake and put her down in his coffin - just to satisfy his morbid curiosity how her porcelain skin would look against the rich mauve of the velvet lining the funerary box - or better yet, carry her all the way into the room that could be rightfully hers, and deposit her on the large bed, the bed that should be rightfully theirs, shared in matrimony. He had chosen the rich hues of the bedding with the tone of her skin and her eye colour and those bouncing curls in mind; nothing less would do justice to her beauty. However, he mused, there would be time to test the full aesthetic effect later, and having her come to their bed of her own will would only sweeten the moment.

For now it seemed both more convenient and, in a strangely contradictory mood, at the same time _less_ indecent and _more_ exciting to lay down her unconscious form into the lush nest of richly tapestried pillows in the gondola that was moored at the small pier within the portcullis, where the open part of his parlour met the artificial shore of the subterranean lake. Her body was already acquainted with the elegant little boat, having rested on the comfortable cushions during their journey over the lake, across the Styx, into his kingdom. It might turn out better for her to wake up in a familiar place, not a hitherto unseen bedroom or - God forbid - a coffin. Furthermore, he quite liked the whimsical idea. When he had first begun to sketch the interior of the _room-that-could-be-hers_ , he had been inspired to design a bed, the _bed-that-should-be-theirs_ , in the shape of a boat worthy of _Tannhäuser_ ’s grotto of Venus, with lavish carvings and leaf gilded rocailles, and maybe a cupid sitting on top of the curved bow - because were vessels not supposed to have a figurehead symbolising either their name or intended purpose? But then Erik had thought better of it - even he had to admit that with this much exuberant symbolism he had gone a little… overboard. His wife deserved a proper _chambre_ , not the dramatic set of a courtesan’s boudoir. And why build an imitation when he had a perfectly functional, well-crafted - and, should the opportunity of whimsical experimentation arise, sinfully comfortable - gondola?

He carefully stepped into the boat that bobbed up and down on the water at this shifting of weight, and slowly lowered her body and arranged it on the pillows, until he was certain she was comfortable. The sash of the dressing gown had become untied at some point, and the flowing fabric now gaped open enough to give him a good view of the _Hannibal_ costume underneath, or rather: the upper part of the costume, as there was Elissa’s revealing red and green corseted bodice, dripping with golden beads and embellishments; when he let his gaze drop further down the length of her body (and if he did push aside the ruffles of her dressing gown just a little more, what was the harm in it - she was as still as a doll and did not protest), he encountered a pair of plain drawers that did not leave much to the imagination. She even seemed to have foregone a chemise! Was this necessitated by the cut and fit of Elissa’s corset? Or was there a deeper meaning behind this wardrobe choice? Oh, to think that she had called out to him in her dressing room, even begged him to show himself, then come to him through the mirror, willingly - all of it in this state of undress! Erik felt heat rise on his face and ears; how physically close she had been to him during their labyrinthine travel down to his home, how closer still when they had sung together! When his hands had wandered, almost gentlemanly, but still wandered all around and over her form - oh, to know now that there had been only the flimsiest of layers between them! And although he had seen her in various stages of disrobing before, from behind the mirror - because, to be honest, this had been unavoidable sometimes, no matter how much he had shielded his eyes or tried to make a hasty retreat, which, more often than not, had proved not quite successful, because the sight of her had cast an irritating spell on him that had rooted him to the spot and forced him to stare - their current situation was entirely different. Ah, it made him feel flustered and, he looked again at the split drawers and the secret place they merely framed instead of covered, it made him want to believe that there had been a better reason than mere haste or costume considerations.

He froze as Christine’s body drew in a stuttering breath and her head nestled into the pillows. But she was still in the arms of Morpheus and nothing suggested any discomfort. Erik watched her closely, his head filled with an odd warm emotion at the sight of her, but then his eyes focused on the tight corset of hers, and he felt a frown form under his mask - surely this restricting garment, however lovely to look at, could not be healthy or even remotely comfortable to rest in? And without a chemise underneath, was it not going to chafe her tender skin if it stayed on for too long? How could he risk damaging her unblemished, uncursed skin - no, he would never be able to forgive himself! Carefully he tried to manoeuvre her upper body into more of a sitting position, to get her arms out of the sleeves of her dressing gown, and, oh, that was no easy feat! Too pliant, too limp was her sleeping form, a deadweight that made her limbs uncooperative, so different from the mannequin’s compliant body, and he heard himself groan in frustration as he had to all but entangle himself in her and the yards of billowing white silk damask, but finally he found an adequate position, and it made her bosom lean heavily against his own chest, and her head flopped onto his shoulder with a soft sigh, as the sleeves gave way to bare arms. This closeness was intoxicating, the scent of her, the warmth of her, her breath on his neck, and her curls tickling the uncovered part of his face. This, this had to be the moment of utter bliss, the ultimate _kairos_ , the moment to which Faust should say: _Ah, linger on, thou art so fair!_ And surely, he was going to perish any second now - blessed by this angel’s pervading his senses! - But no, that was not allowed to happen, because who was going to tend to her, help her out of this offending corset, if he dared to perish?

Finally the fumbling attempts of his hands behind her back paid off, for the lacing of this particularly stubborn design loosened enough under his attack and muttered curses to relax its forceful grasp on her body - and Christine stirred in his arms, not so much a protest but the slow return of the dreamer to the land of the living - but, no, that did not seem right, not the living, not the creatures of daylight, no. He waited for the length of a breath, before he began to hum the gentle melody of night he had sung for her earlier, pulling the notes out of thin air, willing their music into existence - and there was another one of those soft sighs - if she only knew what they did to him! - before she snuggled closer into his embrace; he knew then that keeping her unconscious was a lost cause, but how could he bemoan this, when all of a sudden there was the gentle tickle of lips nuzzling the sensitive skin of his neck, just above his collar? He gasped and there was the smallest of hitches in his melody, because this was heaven and hell in one combined, and it was everything and more than he had ever desired and still not enough, and also this was not what was supposed to happen, these angelic lips on his skin, _his skin_ ; so he drew back from their embrace just a little, with great reluctance, and now she did protest.

“Angel?” Her sweet voice, still somnolent and mildly confused, and he kept humming to her, shushing her with the promise of his music, and tried to guide her back into the pillows.

“Stay with me, Angel,” a little more insistent, a little afraid, and was that need he could hear in her soft words? Oh, his Christine needed him, and how could he deny her? But maybe she was still asleep, still dreaming - or was he the one dreaming? Her arms, however, so heavy and limp before, now came up to hold him, and there was a glassy, feverish shimmer in her wide-eyed gaze.

“Always,” he heard the answer from his own lips, as much a whisper as a part of his melody, and it sounded like a threat to his own ears.

That seemed to put her into motion. She looked around and then down at herself, and for a short and tense moment he could only wonder what she saw - her dressing gown wide open, the bodice of her costume sitting loose and askew and not covering much of her bosom anymore, her unmentionables in scandalous sight, with forbidden curls peeking out from the gaping slit in the fabric. Again he felt his skin warm all over with rosy heat, at the utter indecency of their situation, and when she looked back up into his face, she surely had to see the terrible blush even through the Venetian ceruse on his good side. His mind raced with things he could say, one more absurd than the next - _your corset seemed too tight, my dear child_ \- _you were so tempting when you lay unresponsive like a doll, my sweet bride_ \- _worry not, this is not the first time I have seen you, my little wife_ \- and he dismissed all of them, and by now she was definitely wondering if he had taken advantage of her, he could see the possibility cross her mind and darken her face, and really, he had not, not much, how was he to communicate this to her, he had not, not really, and not for a lack of wanting, but she had awoken too soon, and -

Christine was the one to break through his tormenting train of thought, though only to replace it with the terrifying chill of wordless amazement, when she held his gaze and pushed the loose costume piece up and over her head, baring herself to him, baring herself by her own hands, and then these same hands grabbed one of his to guide it to her body, put it firmly on her right breast, a challenge recklessly issued.

He felt his breath catch and eyes narrow, and he searched her face for any signs of mockery or even madness, because this could not be; and, yes, Christine did have a faraway look in her eyes, and there was something almost feral about her, a dionysian longing in her countenance, not so much the innocent air of an angel, but the wild force of a pagan goddess, and - no! - what darkness had he unleashed in her with his music, what spirit had he called to the fore by introducing her to his nightly kingdom? But growing arousal overpowered doubt, and maybe it could be after all, or maybe he could pretend - pretend she was still asleep and still and unaware, and not let her have a hand in her own doom.

“Angel, whatever you are, I ache for you,” he heard her soft complaint. “Do you not want to sing for me anymore?” So, madness was miasmatic after all, he accepted it with dread and elation in equal parts; it had to be brought on by the night air of his curse, but what beautiful _folie à deux_ hid in the promising sound of her irrational words! How could he resist?

“I am… not an angel, but the humble servant to my goddess,” the words flowed out of him on their own, borrowing a page from a kindred spirit’s libretto, but there was not even a lie in them, “and I will sing your praise.”

Her moan at his words infected him with a new kind of lust. Like Faust he was to undo a lifetime of unfulfilled and vain pleasures in exchange for the one true moment, no matter how devilish the pact that had helped him find it; like Don Juan he was to chase this moment as the fleeting point in time it presented, come damnation or not; like Tannhäuser, this tragic hero whose sole crime was to want too much both in art and in love, he was to revel in Venus’ court and lose himself and any sense of past or future in the otherworld of his divine mistress. And was it not fitting, in an irony of fate deserving of its own opera? He, the sad king of this realm of subterranean night, who had sought to bind the virtuous heroine to himself by offering her his only true seductive beauty, his music, and to keep her with him forever, - he was now to be seduced by his chosen queen, seduced by the darkness he had brought forth in her, and the seductress, in Venus’ own likeness, was to keep him spellbound and colour his music with temptation and sinful desire into eternity. Only, this Tannhäuser would not be so treacherous to seek redemption in the bland religion society deemed acceptable, would never seek forgiveness for having worshipped at her pagan altar.

So he set to the task of worship, and that came easily enough to him, and he gently pushed her back into the velvet and brocade of the pillows. The expanse of bared flesh in front of him, porcelain-toned flesh - but so warm, so alive! - spurred on whatever archaic carnality had been left in him. He sang her praise in the crook of her neck, and against the hard shape of her collarbone, the especially soft underside of her arms, and the valley between her breasts. He hummed his adoration around each of her fingers that he took into his mouth in turn, cautiously holding her wrist each time so as not to give her too much free rein while her hands were so dangerously close to his face. He let his malformed lips close around each perfect nipple, sucking gently and basking in the dissonant screams he could effect from her, ugliness conspiring with beauty to bring forth a new, superior form of art. Above all, he had to taste and lick and smell, foregoing conventional kisses for the sake of sating the wild hunger of his senses; he was starving to discover all the nuances and flavours of her skin, and study the diverse reactions she displayed so freely, a full-body shudder here, and a ripple of involuntary muscle contractions there, and again and again the music her moans and whimpers produced under his ministrations.

Erik had done away with her drawers, this last piece of fabric on her body, rather unceremoniously at some point, but the sight of her completely nude form only threatened to overwhelm him, when he suddenly became aware of the contrast between his own fully clothed state and her nudity; this contrast was jarring and not only aesthetically arousing, a breathtaking study in opposites. With the abundant candles flickering all around them and conjuring an ever-changing, ever-moving picture of light and shadow on her body, she was already more sublime than any painting he had ever seen, but it was the violent contrast of his black dress coat and trousers against her creamy skin that created the most dramatic _chiaroscuro_ , and - “oh, Christine…!” - a soft exhalation - a sob - he could feel the ache of this beautiful dissonance deep in his soul, he could hear it, taste it - and it made him feel naked.

At the sound of his raw desire, she reached for him, her eyes filled with wonder and lust and something too tender and dangerous to name, and then her temerarious hands were pulling at his clothes, trying to undo a button here, and tugging at his bow tie there, and sneaking under his tailcoat - and he had to act fast. Restraining her dangerously eager hands in one of his, he again devoted his full attention to stoking her madness, mercilessly stroking the small engorged bud hiding under her _mons Veneris_ , reducing her to wordless heat and frenzy and creating sufficient distraction to dodge her wandering hands and seeking lips, and discouraging her from further attempts at exploration. This was all about her and for her, his hands and lips and tongue said, while they were drawing a map of her most sensual places, and her role was to lie back and give herself over to pleasure and worship, not to reciprocate, because this horrible body of his was _terra pericolosa_ , and _beyond this point here be monsters_.

Erik was well aware of the special talents, the strange power, his hands held. Given his own heightened tactile sense that sometimes bordered on painful, as every touch, every surface communicated itself all-too acutely to him, it was poetic justice that these hands of his proved to be not only masterful on any instrument he set his mind on playing, but also gave him a certain extent of control over his surroundings. This was not just a magician’s parlour tricks, pieces of legerdemain performed by quick and nimble fingers, but rather a case of hard-earned body control. The smallest wink of a finger tip, the tiniest of gestures, almost imperceptible twitches - none of that was left to chance or lacked meaning; these minute movements came from a place deep within him, an energy that kept his whole body taut like a bowstring. His hands could draw entire pictures into the air around him, could unfold a world of imagination in the mind of the onlooker. Right now, however, his control was tenuous at best and his technique probably lacking, with Christine writhing under his caresses and his own need a growing irritation in the tight confines of his trousers, but the talent was still there, and he focused on it with all his might, lest he shatter into a thousand pieces. This, this he could give to her - a symphony of pleasure drawn from the depths of his musical genius, composed, conducted, and played all by himself.

When he let one long index finger finally slide into Christine’s cunt, he revelled in the way her smooth wet warmth pulled him inside, and it was so much more than a finger in any case - he felt the pull all the way up into his heart, felt how this one intimate point of contact between them tapped into this great centre of energy that fed all his movements, and the breath he let out came on the wings of another sob that formed her name - an honest prayer if he had ever said one, and it choked him like no punjab lasso had ever been able to, choked him without the mercy of a quick death, and emotion stung in his eyes.

She had to feel it, too, as she made an answering soft high noise in her throat, almost keening, and her eyes fluttered shut at the invasion, but her legs opened wider in a silent plea. He took his time, mapping out the tight channel with the sensitive pad of his finger, and observing closely: every minute change in her breathing, each shudder that went through her body when he twisted his finger just slightly so, the way her eyelids twitched when he withdrew his digit just a little bit and pushed it in again a little stronger, at a slightly different angle, the way her pelvis pushed back against his hand when he found a spot inside that felt a bit different, somewhat swollen, and seemed especially sensitive to his ministrations. Adding a second finger gained him a sharp cry, followed by a litany of whimpers and gasps, when he began to massage this spot in earnest. He was learning her like a new instrument, felt his eyes squint in concentration and his tongue dart out between his lips, fully focused on the task at hand, and quite literally so, and he was not sure what was more exhilarating, these new exotic sensations she drew forth in him, or the chance to observe her so closely and unhindered without the need to hide his eager, dissecting gaze, alternately drinking in the length of her body spasming under his efforts and the one place where his fingers disappeared into her again and again, or even the reassuring knowledge of his own talent that was definitely going to make swift and eager progress in mastering this new instrument, until there was no question that he was the only one who could ever fully do justice to it, tune and calibrate it perfectly to the music of his soul.

He let go of her hands to mechanically tear open the button fly of his trousers and blindly fumbled with the restricting fabric of both his suit and his drawers just enough to free his by now painfully hard cock; he did not look at it, could not stand to look at it, this living, pulsing, demanding piece of his unworthy flesh, a priapic testament to his monstrous nature. As much as he had burnt to free it, he now felt the urgency to hide it, and he stretched out his body against hers side by side, partially on top of her, effectively trapping the offending appendage between his body and her smooth thigh; his free arm snaked around to clutch her frame tightly, but his other hand stayed dutifully between her thighs, urging her on, chasing her pleasure, coaxing those thrilling sounds out of her. _He_ was doing this to her, _he_ , master and slave of her pleasure, and the thought alone made him moan.

Christine was rapidly falling apart beneath his hands, with little oh-s and ah-s and hiccoughing breaths, and her hips pushed into the thrust of his fingers, in the utter abandon of the moment, her jerky movements and tremors rubbing deliciously against his hard length between their bodies; she was so very close to finding her fulfilment, Erik saw it, and he did not protest when her arms came up and around to embrace him and hold him, make him hold her, while her cunt squeezed his fingers and spasms kept rippling through her body like waves disturbing a crystal lake, and her raw need of his embrace at the peak of her lust finally made his tears fall freely, far too many hot and embarrassing drops running down his face, as she cried out and shook and clung to him for dear life. He was going to follow her over the edge, he could feel it coming, soon, soon, how his core tensed and tightened and every part of him was ready to burst, and his traitorous hips took over in small but frantic movements, chasing the friction against her thigh, while Christine was still breathing heavily in his ear, unintelligible sweet nothings on her lips, and her fingertips running over his cheek and wiping at his tears, and her hand pulling off his mask and… -

The sudden cool air on his tear-streaked deformity came like a brutal blow, knocking the air out of his lungs, and he heard the ugly scream, her scream - no, it was his scream, the loud wail of a wounded animal, he heard it even before he felt the monstrous cry ripping out of his throat; yet everything happened at once - he pushed her away and his hands flew up to cover his face and he roared and shouted at her - “damn you, curse you!” - and saw the terror on her face - disgust? surely disgust! - and this accusing wide-eyed fear, and the gondola rocked violently while the world in turn stopped spinning, but there was one thing loud and clear amidst it all: a white-hot pain engulfing his mind and heart, boundless rage tearing its claws into him.

“Is this what you wanted to see? Now you cannot ever leave!” He rounded upon her, shaking and hoarse, and saw the way she flinched, how she cowered, frozen and silent, how she pressed her back into the pillows as if to get as far away from him as possible, this look of utter terror on her face combined with an almost innocent, childlike demeanour - how could she dare! This damned Pandora rousing the monsters and then protesting her innocence! This little demon, seducing him, using him, only to destroy him. She had brought it upon herself.

“Yes, look at me! See the loathsome monster! Look and know that it is a rotten corpse that loves and adores you, a monster that fucked you!” He closed in on her, now caging her body against the pillows with his arms and body and face, this ruin of a face, pushing it towards her, daring her to look her fill, daring her to look away.

Christine, however, did not turn away her head or even break the gaze, but kept her eyes firmly on his, and the longer he observed her, the more he saw a subtle change going through her - yes, there was horror, unspeakable fear, but also something mild and gentle - pity? Of course, wretched pity! But no, that was not pity in her eyes - compassion? Acceptance? Kindness? He searched her soul in the depth of her gaze, but the dark rage in him was strong and intoxicating, a powerful poison that had helped him survive through the cruel ordeals of his life before, and he felt his own eyes slip, let doubt drown out whatever he had imagined to see there, oh his stupid hope! No, he only saw his own reflection now staring back at him in those eyes, a gruesome sight indeed, and it was Erik who finally broke their gaze, had to look away, because any second longer and he was going to break for good. And then he saw her, from the corner of his eye, saw her slowly raise a trembling hand towards him, towards his face - and he could no longer bear it.

“Turn around,” the cold, detached voice of the phantom, no longer a voice he fully recognised as his own, yet so terribly familiar, growled out, and he did not even wait for her reaction, but took the hand that so timidly reached out for him, grabbed it by the wrist, grabbed Christine, and he bodily turned her around, away from his face, away from his eyes, if only to flee hers, and she let him with little to no protest, before he collapsed against her backside, plastered his almost completely clothed body all over her skin, now damp with cooling sweat. He burrowed his ruined face into the tangled curls cascading down her back, then pushed her hair aside and licked a broad stripe between her shoulder blades; her scent and taste spelled salt and fear and spent lust, but he was not sated yet - damn him, he was never going to be sated.

“How could you dare to look…” He murmured it into her skin, while his hands found her hips, stroking lightly, waiting, increasing the strength of his touch, waiting. Her breathing had quickened, but she remained silent, as infuriatingly silent as her inanimate doppelganger, and there was no discernible response to be found in her body language, neither consent nor protest. His fingertips were digging into her hips now, and he knew they were going to leave marks on her, marks that could only show on real skin, real flesh, but marks still that were going to fade sooner or later, so unlike his own stigmata; still, the damage was already done, the marks his face had inflicted on her soul - they were never going to fade, he knew for sure.

“Can you even dare to think of me? How this repulsive gargoyle yearns for you?” His voice had dropped to a low whisper, and he hated how broken it had to sound to her ears. He pulled her to her knees and pressed his groin up against her soft buttocks, letting her feel the hard length of his cock, that stood out lewdly and in unpleasant contrast to his fine evening wear; but then, he was a monster, was he not - and this disgusting piece of him summed him up perfectly. “And what is worse,” he punctuated his words by grinding his cock against her arse, “to let the beast fuck you,” another push, “or to know that the beast loves you?”

At this, Christine visibly shook, from fear or even anger, he could not tell, but her spine dipped ever so slightly, pushing her derrière back against his groin. It enraged and even disgusted him a little - how could she let the monster dirty her? He had corrupted her, just as he was corrupting everything he touched, everything that was not pure music. Curse her for being a living, breathing, unpredictable thing that sullied his notes with the reality of her flesh!

Arousal, however, was a primordial force and stronger than most, and the need to take her became overpowering. Her cunt was still wet and warm from before, and after a few clumsy attempts, he found the right angle to slide the tip of his cock into her; he was met with only little resistance, and after some careful shallow thrusts, the last barrier gave way and Christine let out a cry that should not have resounded so unpleasantly loud in the high vaults of the cellar, more noise than music. He bottomed out against her, his cock sheathed in tight heat. Her shoulders were trembling, but so were his hands on her hips, and he could hear her whimpering into the pillow under her face. But then she was the one to start moving against him, and this should have felt good, and in a way it maybe did, but the roaring in his ears was still so loud and insistent, and her thrusts betrayed a certain amount of perfunctory cruelty, as if she was trying to punish herself on his cock, punish him, neither his perfect little wife nor divine seductress, but a faceless and almost silent automaton; he felt the push and pull of her tight walls around his cock, in time with the boat’s rocking back and forth in the rhythm of their coupling - no, fucking, unrefined and needy fucking. A small voice in his head told him he should take it - take her - slower, try to make this good for both of them, but this ship had sailed already, had it not, and he could not stop himself; nature had taken over and supplanted art, his body once again a traitor whose sole purpose seemed to be to complicate beauty and murder all that was good. The monster was taking its pleasure, was taking its pleasure out on her, even if this pleasure consisted merely in hurting himself, the spikes of ever escalating lust tearing at his skin and slicing through his mind, a painful void in minor scale making itself felt in his lower abdomen and spreading out, until it threatened to engulf him completely, to annihilate him - yes, good, this was good - he gritted his teeth - annihilate him in the rawness of his hurt and rage, and her soft wails were the only fitting accompaniment of their frantic rutting all the way into his fall over the edge, down into the abyss of his lack of a soul - and it was over soon, too soon, not soon enough, because he was still a panting mass of unbearable pain, even as the spasms subsided, even as he collapsed on top of her sweaty back, pushing her flat into the cushions, but now there was the added disgrace of his spent cock sliding wetly out of her, mocking him and filling him with utter disgust.

The moment Erik caught his breath again, he rolled off her and backed away as even the slightest touch of their bodies threatened to burn him to ash. Why had she not stopped him? This had not been happening. How could she dare let this happen? This was a feverish nightmare only, an illusion conjured by his demented brain. No, no, no, this naked body, breathing heavily and shivering from the chill of cooling sweat, was not Christine, was not his bride, was not his angel.

The body, however, turned over and it had a face; she had a face, and the cheeks were blotchy from exertion and probably crying, and the eyes were slightly puffy, but it was her face, Christine’s face. One of his hands immediately flew up to cover the ruins of his right side, and he turned half away, looked down, anywhere but her face that made everything too real, but his other hand shot out and grabbed one of her hers.

“Come we must return - those fools above will be missing you.” The words he heard forced out of his own mouth rang with a false cadence that fit neither the phantom’s voice nor the fallen angel’s; this was not remotely anything that Erik could recognise as his own voice, or as any of the incarnations of his voice, but it had to be a trick of ventriloquy that his mind played on him.

Christine’s hand tightened in his grip, and he could not help raising his eyes to hers, meeting her gaze at last, but what he saw made him shiver. Her expression held too many unreadable emotions, not just the disgust or hatred he had expected to find there, although they were clearly part of this highly explosive mixture. The pull of her hand grew stronger, drawing him closer to her form again, and suddenly he found himself face to face with her, and if it had been painful and mortifying before, so did the lack of his mask turn excruciating now. However, there was nothing he could do about that now, as she let go of his hand - only to raise both of hers to his face and pull away the makeshift cover of his fingers, baring him once again to her unhindered gaze. And then those hands of hers were suddenly on his face - he felt its muscles flinch - framing it, grasping it in their strong hold, and he wished she would slap him or scratch him, tear his flesh with her nails and draw blood, bury the tips of her fingers deeply into skin and muscles, rend him apart and reduce his bones to powder until nothing was left of this monstrous visage, both the ruined half and its deceptively good counterpart that only masked the monster inside.

There was the slightest moment of hesitation, a flicker of terror in her eyes, but then a defiant resolve seemed to come over her, and Erik felt her hold on him tighten, not to scratch and claw at him, however, at least not with her fingers - her eyes sufficiently made up for it as they glared daggers at him and sliced away piece by piece of his mortal layers - but to guide his wretched face down and closer to her body, towards the triangle of dark curls between her legs.

He all but prostrated himself before her, as she spread her legs wider and pushed his head down and his face into her folds, and neither words nor music came to his rescue, nothing he could say or sing or even think of, as his senses were reduced to a kaleidoscope of perceptions - _warm - wet - soft - musky - tangy sweetness_ \- and he gave in to the sensations. There was no mask posing an obstacle now, and he could bury his face deeply in her cunt, put his distorted features to good use at last, his stunted excuse of a nose giving his tongue all the better access to her inner sanctum, his twisted, fiercely corded flesh rubbing against her folds in what he could only hope was a sort of freakish heightening of stimulation, his grossly enlarged and disproportionate lips fastening themselves onto her bud and sucking with abandon.

The hands on his head felt hot even through his wig and they wielded power by their sheer presence, and there was nothing else left than to obey and live in the moment while the past was cursed and the future doomed. So he thoroughly threw himself into the present, each lick a silent and futile apology, because he knew he did not deserve forgiveness… - but if only he were able to make her forget - forget his face by burying it deeply in her cunt, and forget the monster she had unleashed by licking away his own bitter seed and the iron notes of her sacrifice, and coaxing sweeter flavours out of her. And if only he could pretend - pretend that her heavy breathing above him was an integral part of his music once again, written into their score by grace of artistic intention instead of aleatoric hazard, pretend that the _crescendo_ of her gasps and moans was effected by his virtuoso control of the instrument, not his desperation. However, there was not going to be any redemption for this Tannhäuser, even if he chose to remain in the grotto of Venus, no, she herself was going to cast him out, finally aware how worthless and undeserving he really was. And the gentle touch of those hands carding through the hair of his wig, urging him on, in pretence of a loving caress, while she spasmed around his tongue and almost crushed him between trembling thighs, before those hands fell away, ostensibly in blissful exhaustion, but truly as the gesture of regret and renunciation he so clearly understood it to be - what else had it been than the cruel touch of a farewell, a teasing display of _what-could-never-be_?

Erik made sure to pick up his mask from where it had been discarded on the pillows, and put it securely on his face, before he resurfaced from between Christine’s legs, her dewy taste of iron and musk combined with the salty note of his own tears on his lips; her juices felt sticky on his skin and under the mask. Christine, however, lay aswoon, her features once again relaxed, safe for a small and illusive smile on her face, another mocking trick his mad mind played on him for sure. He had never understood why the books called it _the little death_ , but indeed - something had died inside of him that night.


End file.
